


More Than the Work

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6535513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has had enough of them dancing around one another. Sherlock finds the whole situation overwhelming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than the Work

After Mary, after the shock of the baby-that-never-was, after they sell the house, after John returns to Baker St., after they defeat Moriarty (again), after the post-case Indian food, after the fire is built, after their drinks are poured, after Sherlock emerges from the shower, after he enters the sitting room with a towel slung low across his hips and a second towel engaged in rubbing the excess water from his damp hair…

 _God_. How John longs to touch that hair. To be the one allowed to gently towel-dry those curls. To press close to Sherlock and feel his skin, still warm from the shower, against his own. To curl his hands around sharp hipbones and swipe his fingertips under that towel. To trail and twist them through wiry coarse pubic hair and stroke them along the burgeoning hardness that would tent the towel obscenely.

John breathes out and shakes his head. No use getting all worked up in the middle of the sitting room. Sherlock is bound to notice if he starts stroking himself through his jeans. He readjusts his position and sets his unread novel on the side table. Gathering his nerve, he clears his throat to get Sherlock’s attention. 

The detective stops mussing his hair and focuses his bright attention on John. He waits with a curious expression for John to speak. John looks down at his feet, unwilling to maintain eye contact for this conversation.

“Sherlock,” John says the name like it is a question in itself. “I was wondering…I mean…it’s been several months now since I, you know, moved back here.” John gains a little momentum and risks a glance at the detective. The man’s face is schooled tightly in an achingly familiar blank unreadable mask. John casts his eyes around for something reassuring to look at. They alight on the violin sitting ready in its open case. Just seeing the instrument reminds John of dark nights and bad dreams dispelled with a flick of Sherlock’s wrist. He smiles and continues.

“Look, I know how important the Work is to you. I’ve always known and it’s important to me too.” John licks his lips. “It’s just, well, really I was wondering if you ever…um, if you ever maybe considered something…more?”

Sherlock makes a confused noise. “More than the Work?” His brow creases in confusion and he wishes John would look up. He can’t deduce what in the world John is trying to get at without data. He needs to see. He needs to read the lines of John’s face, the susurrus of emotion fluttering behind his eyes. 

When an explanation does not seem forthcoming, Sherlock growls with frustration and starts pacing. Facts are flying through his brain, slotting themselves into order while he tries to find the common thread, the clue that will unravel the mystery of this conversation. The key to John Watson.

John watches Sherlock pace in increasing agitation. He knows he should say something. He wants to say something but the words are stuck in his throat. This had been a bad idea. What was he thinking! How could he possibly think Sherlock would be interested? Now, Sherlock will be determined to figure it out, he won’t stop until he gets the answer. Then, he’ll be appalled and John will be asked to leave.  

John pushes through the thick heavy cotton filling his mouth, “Sherlock,” he breathes. The man stops pacing and fixes him with a gaze so intense that John feels it like a physical force. “With me. I meant something more…with me.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think about them. His jaw slams shut as his brain catches up and he waits in quiet anticipation. 

Sherlock openly gapes at him. He seems incapable of doing much except staring. John rises and walks several paces closer, not crowding Sherlock, leaving him plenty of space, but wanting to be nearer. Now that he’s finally said it, he finds that he can look intently at Sherlock’s face. John doesn’t break eye contact as he waits for Sherlock’s brain to come back online. He sees it happen slowly and all at once. His expression is a cascade of so many emotions that John barely picks out the first three – fear, hope, distress - before the shutters are thrown haphazardly closed and his face is once again placidly serene.

“Why?” The question is like a physical blow. John feels winded. He feels the urge to flee. He feels breathless and full of adrenaline. If Sherlock has to ask, then he has never considered it. He doesn’t understand why anyone would consider it. John had known what he was setting himself up for, but it still hurts.

“I just thought that perhaps you might be…interested.” The word sounds wrong and flat on John’s tongue. “You know, in me. It’s ok that you’re not. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We can keep being us, the way we always have been. Nothing has to change I just…” John sighs and pulls his shoulders back, the soldier instinct is engrained so deep in him that he barely notices it anymore. His chin lifts and his back straightens as he braces, readying himself for battle.

“I love you. Have done for a long time now and I thought you had a right to know. I’ve nearly said so many times, but I was afraid. And then I thought I was too late. That I had missed my opportunity and would never get to tell you.” John flexes his hand. It is surprisingly steady. “Then you came back and it was like getting a second chance. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t waste it. So, just so you know, I am in love with you and I’m hoping maybe you might feel something for me too?”

“John.” It’s a long drawl of a name, like Sherlock is tasting each letter on his tongue. John is almost sure he sees affection and something warmer bleeding through the stone façade when the man turns to gaze at the fire in the grate. The fire casts an ethereal glow over the sharp angles of Sherlock’s body. His head is bowed so that his curls hang limply along his neck, his back flickers with shadows as the light plays across it, his hands are clenched into fists at his side…

_His back._

John’s thoughts screech to a halt and his entire world narrows down to the gentle slope of Sherlock’s spine. The delicacy of his naked, pale skin. The planes of his strong shoulders. The ripple of muscle as he rests his arm on the mantelpiece. John takes in the sheer beauty of Sherlock’s naked torso. Of course he does. He would have to be blind not to see it.

But that is not what brings him up short. It is not the delicate grace that chokes John’s breath and floods his chest with sharp icy tendrils of horror. No. The tears pricking John’s eyes are for the angry red lines that dissect Sherlock’s back. The gouge marks and the burns. The traces of raging infection John can read in the coloration and thickness of the scarring. 

Sherlock goes rigid and stops breathing. Clearly he has picked up on John’s attention. He rests his head on the forearm he has leaning against the mantel like it is too heavy to hold up anymore. His shoulders curve inward in defeat, like he wants to curl into himself. Like if he wishes hard enough, he can hide himself from John’s watchful gaze.

John takes several breaths as he tries to figure out what to do. He knows he will only have one shot at this. If he says the wrong thing, that will be it. Sherlock will shut down and they will never speak of this again.

“It’s nothing, John.” Sherlock’s voice is flat and soft - utterly, utterly wrong. John steps toward him with his arm outstretched but stops short of actually touching him. “Sherlock,” he admonishes fondly. John wants to know when and where and why. He wants to comfort and reassure Sherlock, but he has no idea where to start. Instead, he reaches out again, fingers mere millimeters away, hovering over Sherlock’s skin.

“May I?” he asks. Sherlock gives a single nod of assent, but John can see the tension carving its way through Sherlock’s body. John touches him with the barest whisper of fingertips. Gently. So, so gently, he traces a thick ropey knife wound scar that paints its way across Sherlock’s ribcage. His hands are warm and move softly, reverently over the scarred terrain of Sherlock’s back. He tries to pour everything he cannot say into that touch. Sherlock doesn’t really relax but some of the tension eases out of his frame.

Soon John has traced every single scar. Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief as the exploration comes to an end. One of John’s hands wraps around Sherlock’s waist while the other is splayed openly over his right scapula. The touch is firm, safe, grounding. What Sherlock does not expect is the whisper of dry, wind-chapped lips over a single cigar burn that adorns his left shoulder. The adoration of that action threatens to overwhelm him completely. A raw sharp sound of distress echoes through the room. Sherlock is surprised to realize he is the one making it. John draws back but does not remove his hands from their stationary positions.

“Too much?” he asks with genuine concern. It’s the concern that tips him over the edge. Before he can so much as respond, Sherlock is spinning to capture John in his arms, drawing him close, and sealing his lips over John’s in an ardent, inexperienced, passionate kiss. Sherlock breathes heavily as John responds enthusiastically. John’s hands are in his hair and Sherlock’s mouth is slightly open now as John’s tongue darts out to tease along his lower lip. Sherlock moans and rocks forward into John’s legs, his hips automatically driving him toward the nearest source of friction. He relishes John’s responding moan as he licks and nibbles his way down the never-ending column of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s breath is coming in harsh pants and he has to force the words out. “I love you too, John.”

John’s mouth freezes in place, his tongue still pressed against the sensitive juncture between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. They stay frozen that way for several minutes until the silence is nearly unbearable. Sherlock grips John’s shoulders and carefully forces him back so that he can see the man’s face. He looks shocked, lost, and totally wrecked. His cheeks are stained with tears and he is shaking where he stands.

Sherlock knew this was a bad idea. He can’t stand the heartbreak and pity he sees in John’s eyes. He turns away breaking the tentative hold of John’s arms and flees to his bedroom, stopping only to murmur a soft, “I’m so sorry, John,” before he disappears behind the safety of sturdy wood. John startles as he hears the lock click into place. Sherlock hardly ever locks his door. It’s not necessary. John would never enter his bedroom without permission. John sees this for what it is - a physical division, a tactic to keep John firmly away.

“Sherlock, come on. Please come back out here so we can talk about this. I don’t even know what I did wrong.” John can feel the hysteria rising but he pushes it down. He is trying to get Sherlock calm. John hears a loud noise - wood scraping against wood. “Sherlock?”

No response. His blood runs cold as he thinks about the only thing in Sherlock room that would make that noise. “Sherlock, open this door right now or I swear to God I will kick it down. Please, Sherlock, please. Don’t do this. I’m sorry. Ok? I’m sorry.” John leans his forehead against the door as he waits. He gives Sherlock several minutes but he does not seem to be coming to open the door anytime soon. 

“If you’re listening, Sherlock. Stand back. I’m going to break it down.” John braces himself and rams his shoulder against the door repeatedly. He can feel the pain shooting up his arm and knows that he will pay dearly for this later. Right now, none of that matters. All that matters is getting to Sherlock before he does something colossally stupid.

On the fifth hit, the door gives and John stumbles into the room. His eyes take a minute to adjust to the darkness and he panics when he cannot find Sherlock right away. A few seconds later, he can see small movements in the far corner of the bedroom.

Sherlock is huddled into the corner. A rubber band hangs loosely from his arm and his eyes shine manically. “John,” he whispers with awe and surprise. Suddenly, he looks afraid. “I couldn’t, John. I can’t. I can’t do it. I don’t know how. It’s too much. It’s all too much and you were looking at me. Seeing all those things and I just needed it to stop. I needed it to stop.” Tears leak from his eyes during Sherlock’s erratic monologue.

John crosses the room quickly and crouches in front of the man. He is careful to let only gentle concern and affection show on his face. The anger and betrayal will save until later. John leans forward and runs his hand along Sherlock’s cheek. “I need to check your pulse, alright?” he asks. Sherlock watches him intently but doesn’t respond. John moves slowly, clearly telegraphing his intentions and giving Sherlock time to protest. The man doesn’t utter a word. He just lets John work. John is just pressing his finger to Sherlock’s pulse point when the man shudders violently. He whispers, “I’m sorry,” as he falls limply against John’s chest.  

John holds the unconscious man, cradling him against his chest. He rocks them slowly as his eyes take in the room. His gaze catches on the floorboard propped against the bedside table. He had known what was happening from the first sound of wood grating against wood. He should have been faster. He shouldn’t have waited. He aims a rough kick at the offensive Moroccan case lying at their feet, tucks his face into Sherlock’s neck, and cries.


End file.
